e Magus

The other day, I wrote about sound as a barrier, thanks to technology. However, any news channel I tune into is debating India’s National Education Policy (NEP) 2020—specifically, the three-language formula in schools. The policy aims to promote multilingualism and cultural integration by ensuring that students learn three languages, with at least two being native to India, while not imposing any specific language. (NEP 2020 - Wikipedia) Here, too, language can be both a bridge and a barricade. It connects people, cultures, and ideas, yet it also draws boundaries—defining who belongs and who does not. Recent media reports about tensions with 'non-locals' in Bangalore and Pune are symptoms of a deeper issue. The Gokak agitation of the 1980s and the anti-Hindi protests of the 1960s remind us that this debate has persisted for decades. The three-language formula is an elegant compromise on paper—a way to balance national unity, local identity, and global relevance. In practice, ho...

After many days (over 2,000, if it matters), I went to the gym again. The layout had changed a bit, and some new equipment had been added... but something felt off. Then I realised—it was the music. The once-familiar peppy beats, played out loud for everyone, were missing. Instead, all I saw were people with headsets or AirPods, lost in their own worlds. It made me wonder. Sound was once the great unifier of human experience. It was our earliest tool for connection—a way to greet, negotiate, confirm, and console. In its purest form, it was a bridge, a means to break barriers. Even ancient Vedic wisdom was codified as Shruti—wisdom that must be heard. Sound had to be received, absorbed, and shared. Technology only amplified this connectivity. The radio, with programs like Binaca Geetmala, was once the centrepiece of the home, bringing families together. Church bells and temple gongs summoned people to congregate, reinforcing a shared sense of belonging. The ringing mobile phone —until s...

Call it peer pressure, FOMO, curiosity, or whatever you will—last weekend, I succumbed to the temptation of watching the Malayalam movie Marco on OTT. After a lot of fast-forwarding and watching mostly on mute, I survived the ordeal. What surprised me was that this was one of the biggest box office hits in the Malayalam film industry! The fact that it became a hit, while surprising, isn’t entirely unexpected. There have been numerous movies across languages that have followed the same template—hyper-masculine, ultra-violent, larger-than-life spectacles with slick production. A few that come to mind: Animal, Jawan, KGF, Pushpa, and so on. Cinema has always been a mirror. The smouldering angst of the Angry Young Man in the ’70s reflected a generation’s disillusionment. The Yash Chopra-fied romances of the ’90s were love letters to an aspirational, globalised India. Even earlier, post-independence films explored a society in transition—grappling with socialism, poverty, and change. This...

  In the North-East corner of the ‘kolai’ (portico/veranda) in my parent’s house in Kerala, there is a furniture that is most in demand for every generation of the family members. The easy chair - Charu Kasera. It was once an ubiquitous furniture in most houses in Kerala… however, now-a-days, I find it at few homes. The disappearance of the easy chair isn’t just about furniture—it’s about changing family dynamics, the evolution of leisure, and the way our lives have become structured differently. The easy chair, often a cane or wooden recliner, or a foldable one with cloth,   with an extended leg rest, was once a fixture in Kerala, and also in maybe many other homes in India. It was more than just a piece of furniture—it was a throne of authority and relaxation, usually reserved for the eldest in the household. There was an unwritten rule: this was karnavar’s chair (an Hindi equivalent would be Dadaji’s Chair) , and its occupation by anyone else was a transgression of hierarch...

I was watching The Dark Knight with my kid the other night on Netflix. My 13-year-old got totally engrossed in the epic battle between Batman and the Joker. But as the story unfolded, I couldn’t help but think (in the backdrop of BJP’s sweeping victory in Delhi elections after 24 years): Is this movie, in some weird way, about the rise of the right in politics? The character of Harvey Dent in the movie is a perfect example. He starts off as the “White Knight” of Gotham, representing justice and order, much like what we see in societies that lean towards left-wing ideals—social justice, equality, and fairness. But, as his character unravels, it’s clear he’s not as infallible as he seemed. His descent into chaos, after the Joker pushes him past his breaking point, is like a metaphor for how ideologies can get twisted when they push too far. There’s always a breaking point, a moment when something radical takes over. And suddenly, Dent—the good guy—becomes the villain. This descent into ...

There’s something almost comical about LinkedIn’s wisdom factory. The moment an ad catches fire - good or bad —like Cadbury’s Not Just a Cadbury Ad , which featured Shah Rukh Khan promoting small businesses—it sparks a frenzy of insights and human truths . Marketing folks (and even those far removed from the field) pounce on the opportunity, dissecting its brilliance, speculating on its success, and anointing it a case study of our times. It’s as though every marketer is on call, ready to declare the causality behind virality. On the flip side, a campaign misstep—like current Jaguar’s rebranding ad—draws an equally feverish response. It becomes a post-mortem free-for-all, with LinkedIn lit up by a chorus of “I told you so,” blaming everything from misjudged social cues, the brand director’s sex orientation to poor corporate strategy. Whether it’s Nike’s market dip or Trump’s election triumph, there’s no shortage of listicles, each purporting to unpack the ‘10 reasons’ behind these out...